False Advertising
by Cattiechaos
Summary: All England wants is a maid to tidy his house. He gets Francis instead.
1. Première Partie

**Première Partie (Part One)**

On the exterior, Arthur Kirkland was the picture of the perfect gentleman. He prized order, sensibility, and chivalry – the qualities of any civilized member of society. These days, the only thing that could get under his skin was a particularly confounding piece of legislation, or Francis, or Alfred. (For what it mattered, Francis and Alfred had _always _managed to get under his skin, and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon.) He dressed impeccably, his Parliament office was immaculate, and yet, under it all, he harbored a dirty secret.

His apartment looked as if it were in a state of a post-apocalyptic meltdown. Itwas strewn with miscellaneous objects, from the miniature potted plant he had been forced to take home at the last Christmas party, to an antique bust of Mozart. A sewing kit lay half-buried underneath last week's _Financial Times _and a veritable mountain of organizational folders, which was decidedly ironic. Arthur had attempted to vanquish the mess himself, but made a hasty retreat after he plunged waist-deep into a pile of conference notes from the '90s. Even his cat seemed to disapprove the mess, fixing Arthur with critical green orbs that seemed to say, _seek professional help._

So Arthur did. He skimmed ads in the _London Daily _until he found a cleaning company that seemed suitable, the ad of which read:

_Complete and discrete service_

_in your apartment, office, or anywhere you want it!_

_Experienced and reliable professionals_

_guarantee your satisfaction._

_Call: 714-1789_

So now Arthur was waiting, sitting in the parlor room in his favorite chintz armchair with a copy of his favorite Dickens novel. The day seemed innocuous enough – no meetings, no conference calls, no quandaries of any sort – but Arthur had learned by now not to trust these deceptive lulls of peace.

11am came and went. By 11:03, began to grow antsy. By 11:15, he was more than a little peeved. He was just considering phoning the cleaning company when abruptly, at precisely 11:17, the doorbell rang.

He had a few choice words in mind as he strode to the doorway and pulled the door open, ready to scold the maid for her tardiness, when the words he had already been half- forming simply died in his mouth.

Arthur could have said anything. He could have said "You're a man?" He could have said "You're wearing a French maid's outfit?" But what actually came out of his mouth was: "_Francis_?"


	2. Deuxième Partie

"_Bonjour_," Francis greeted breezily, sauntering past Arthur with a wink. "Funny running into you here, _Angleterre_!"

Arthur could only stare in stupefied silence. Lo and behold, Francis stood before him like Arthur's own personal vision of hell, clad only in fishnet stockings and a skimpy French maid's outfit complete with frills, a plunging neckline, and a white lace apron that was _just barely hanging on_, and Arthur didn't want to find out if Francis was wearing underwear or not. (It was unlikely.)

"_What_ are you doing?" Arthur said finally, easing himself into an armchair and wishing dearly that he had just taken a mop and broom to the place himself. Anything to have spared his eyes this sight.

Francis laughed merrily, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. "_I_ should be asking the questions," Francis retorted, almost pouting. "_You're _the one who ordered a stripper."

Arthur's heart almost shut down then and there.

"I – I _beg your pardon_?" he spluttered, turning three shades redder. "A – a _stripper_?" Oh, why had he gotten out of bed this morning?

"You _did _call the number, didn't you?" Francis queried, raising his eyebrows mischievously. "714-1789? You didn't really think it was a _cleaning_ service, did you? _Mon Dieu, _did you _read _the ad at all? Why do you think it said 'discreet services'? What did you make of the line, 'providing you with the little _extras_'? Or when it said we'd service you in your 'apartment, office, or anywhere you want it'? It hardly sounds like a _cleaning service._"

Well.

It did sound painfully obvious when_ Francis _read it like that.

"It's not my fault I'm not a perverted frog," Arthur said disgustedly, rubbing his forehead. "You own a _brothel?_"

"Don't insult me," Francis sulked, tossing his golden tresses back in the most disgruntled fashion. "I haven't had a brothel since the _Moulin Rouge_. For God's sake, they're exotic dancers, adult entertainers, if you will! We're a huge hit at bachelor parties and the occasional bachelorette party."

Arthur could only shake his head. "All these centuries and you still manage to amaze me. It's outrageous."

Francis waved his hand airily. "We offer full and discreet service, of course, but when I saw your name on the list of clientele, I couldn't resist a personal visit…"

"And that's why you're dressed that way?" Arthur snorted.

"Of course. It's for old time's sake," Francis replied, fluffing his apron teasingly with a self-satisfied smirk. "Does this bring back any memories, perhaps?"

"No. Nothing that hasn't been blocked out from my mind," Arthur replied flatly. "You understand that I still expect you to clean this apartment, right?"

Francis scoffed. "I don't clean, _Angleterre_, and certainly not after the English."

"You _will _clean this apartment."

"I think not. I do not offer_ that _kind of service_. _But if you're looking for something else…" the suggestive lilt to Francis' tone left no question as to what he was referring to.

"_No_," Arthur replied emphatically, a trace of fear shadowing his expression. "Francis. What are you doing? _Francis, keep that on!_"

"Don't fight it!" Francis cried dramatically, thrusting his arms out in a theatrical maneuver. "Surrender to the power of _l'amour_!"

"I've left the surrendering to you for the past few hundred years; I don't see why I should change anything n—gah! _What are you doing?_"

"I will _not _be known for bad customer service, Arthur_. _Just close your eyes and think of England!"

"FRAAAAAAAAAANCIIIIIIIIIIS!"

_A/N:_

_Francis doesn't actually violate Arthur, by the way |D It was all just a bit of good-natured fun/psychological torture – nothing too scarring :Db. This is the last bit of humorous writing I'm doing for a while, so I'd like to hear your comments if you are inclined to provide them. Fluff/humor was fun while it lasted, but like champagne bubbles, they can't sustain a writer forever. It's time to go back to writing the serious, historical stories that I love most._

_I based the ad off an actual cleaning service ad I found online, which had the phrase: "Providing you with the little extras". I think they meant they'd put a mint on your pillow, and I don't think French strippers were involved, but I still had to write this._

_Did anyone notice that the phone number for France's maid company, 714-1789 is the date of the storming of Bastille? July 14, 1789_.


End file.
